Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If I jump, will you catch me?

Dick felt the heavy weight of Bruce's forlorn gaze on him as he sped away that night, long after the manor had disappeared into the landscape behind him.

After what he'd said, Bruce still had the gall to have that haunted look on his face as Dick had run away. Unbelievable.

The rain came harder the further he got from Gotham, like the sky itself was trying to hold him back. Dick pressed the accelerator, teeth clenched, wind biting his skin through his clothes. The city lights blurred behind him — Wayne Tower, the skyline, everything he’d fought for — fading to nothing.

“Fine,” he muttered to himself. “You don’t trust me? You don’t need me? Then I’m gone.”

It was a lie, of course. He’d never wanted to leave. He’d wanted Bruce to stop him — to admit he was proud, to say he wasn’t just another soldier in the endless war. To say that he felt this thing between them, the magnetic pull keeping them in each other's orbit. To say that Dick wasn't alone. But Bruce had only looked at him with that same damn restraint, same clenched jaw, same unreadable mask that used to make him feel safe.

Now it just made him furious.

By the time the skyline of Blüdhaven rose out of the fog, Dick’s anger had cooled into something colder. The city didn’t look like much — smaller, dirtier, meaner — but it had room to breathe. Gotham was a cathedral of ghosts; this was a graveyard that didn’t pretend to be holy.

And what's more than that, it didn't have the constant weight of memory, longing, and expectation pressing down on every street and side-alley. In Gotham, every shadow was a reminder of the past closeness that the dynamic duo may never return to.

Dick wasn't Robin anymore.

The little bird had begun to lose its down feathers, growing past the role that had come so naturally before. He wanted to unfurl his wings, take the next steps, but the Bat wouldn't let him. Wouldn't accept him. He didn't want a partner. And Dick was no longer just a sidekick.

The rejection burned hot in his stomach all over again.

Fine. He would do this alone, then.

The apartment he found was barely bigger than a motel room and twice as expensive, but it was what Dick could afford on his own for now. He could use Bruce's credit card—the man certainly owed him at least that much. But Dick dismissed the thought before it had barely formed. He couldn't rely on Bruce if his storming off was going to mean anything.

The floorboards creaked, the walls smelled like detergent and mildew, but it was his. No cameras. No Alfred checking in. No Bat-symbol casting a shadow he'd never measure up to.

He dropped his duffel on the bed, sat down, and listened to the hum of the city below. Somewhere a siren wailed, a dog barked, a window slammed shut.

Freedom. It should’ve felt good.

It didn't.

All Dick could think about was the resigned sorrow in Bruce's eyes as he watched him leave. Loved him enough to let him go, but not enough to go after him. Loved him enough to keep his hands at his side when Dick offered him everything, but not enough to take it.

His chest ached, hollow and empty, his own heartbeat echoing loudly throughout the desolate room. Trying not to let the empty space be a reminder of the gulf between them, Dick took his bedding out of the duffel and spread it over the bed. Zitka —his elephant plush from his carnival days—came out of the bag next, the threadworn greys and blues instantly calming him as he rubbed the velvety fabric between his fingers.

Setting Zitka at her crowning spot on the bed, Dick got up and moved about the studio, taking some time to add a few more personal touches to make the apartment feel less like a prison and more like something he could start to call home.

He didn't have much with him beyond the blankets and the plush, not having planned his exit in advance— well, not entirely. Dick had packed that particular duffel months ago, when Bruce had started freezing him out. It had waited patiently for him, and while Dick had hoped that the next time he went to retrieve it would be to bring it back to the manor, he knew that it was inevitable that he end up here once Bruce could no longer ignore the growing spark between them.

Dick would have to go out and buy more things tomorrow, but that could wait. All at once, the grief hit him; vision blurring, he sagged into the bed, pulling Zitka to his chest and pulling the blankets over him, as though that could stop anyone from seeing the dam finally break.

A sob wrenched its way free from his chest, wet and ragged, and then Dick was pressing his face into the pillow to muffle the wails of despair that he couldn't hold back any longer. He cried and cried into the pillow until he was gasping for breath, clutching his chest to try and press back the unbearably hollow ache there. It helped, but only just. The sobs kept coming in waves, and Dick couldn't do anything but cry his little heart out. He cried himself to sleep in that dingy little apartment, mourning what his love for Bruce had done to them — what Bruce's lack of courage had done to them.

Tomorrow, the bird would get back on his feet and make preparations to spread his wings, to become something more. But tonight, he was Robin for just a little longer, cold and shivering without the safety of his nest.

—

The Bigtop sparkled with magic and amusement. The air was thick with sugar and sawdust, and the lights painted everything gold. He could hear the music — distant, warped — a carousel tune that stuttered as if the record were cracked.

Two figures swung above him, fluid and weightless, every arc perfect until—

He didn’t see the moment they fell. He never did. Just the echo of it; the rush of wind, the sick silence that followed.

He was small and frightened, knees pulled tight to his chest in the back of a car, watching the city smear past the window. A hand rested heavy on his shoulder. He looked up to see the cowl — sharp, unreadable — and the voice that told him he wasn’t alone.

For a while, he believed that.

The world rippled. Now he was in costume, lungs full of adrenaline, the city sprawling beneath him. He leapt — it felt like flying again, the way it used to feel — and there was Batman, dark wings spread, waiting.

Only this time, the grip didn’t hold.

He slipped through calloused fingers, falling past the cape, past the skyline, past everything they could have been. The city opened its arms to swallow him whole.

—

Bludhaven got its first glimpse of cobalt blue illuminating the shadows on a cold autumn night.

The shadows here were different, untested. Dick had learned their rhythm in the weeks since his move: the half-lit alleys where deals went down, the rooftops that sagged under the weight of too many stories, the docks that stank of stagnant oil and dead fish.

He moved through them like a ghost, no longer dashing the night apart with the golden-yellow of his cape and sunlight in his smile. He didn't feel particularly sunny anymore. No, he felt like the black and blue suited him now in a way the red and yellow didn't; dark and bruised, matured out of the unyielding optimism he once carried to more properly reflect the adult that he was now. No more fairy tales.

The first time he saw the figure watching him, he didn’t think much of it. Just another silhouette against a smokestack, too far to make out. Bludhaven was full of shadows like this, and Dick had learned to tune them out. By the second night, he was sure. Someone was tracking his routes, studying him. The presence was weighted, authoritative, familiar enough that Dick felt his hopes rise despite himself.

It would be just like Bruce to watch him from afar, to scout ahead and judge his progress before coming to find him.

Dick couldn't help the hammering of his heart as he waited for the confrontation. Even if Bruce finally came, several months late… Dick was going to make him work for it.

Nightwing dropped down from the fire escape to a lower ledge, deliberately leaving his back exposed. Let B stew on that. Let him see how far his little soldier had come. No longer following orders, deciding for himself what was best.

The shadows shifted above him — a whisper of motion, heavy and precise. Dick tried to hide the smile curling up his mouth at the corners, the old thrill burning in his chest.

“About time,” he called softly, not turning around. His heart was thrumming in his veins, but he was determined to make the older man squirm a bit first. “You could’ve just said you missed me.”

Silence answered him. Then:

“It has been quite a while, little bird.”

The voice wasn’t gravel and guilt. It was smooth. Amused, almost fond. Older, sharper around the edges.

The back of Dick's neck prickled with danger. He turned fast, escrima sticks flashing up in a defensive arc — and froze when he saw the mask.

Black and orange. One eye.

The air went out of him like he’d been punched. “Deathstroke,” he breathed into the cold night air.

“Robin.” Slade stepped out of the dark like he’d been born from it, relaxed, almost casual. He didn't miss the way Dick flinched at the name. “You were expecting someone else?”

Dick’s mouth went dry, and he stepped back to assume a defensive posture. “You’ve got some nerve—”

“I’m not here to fight.” The mercenary’s tone was level, easy, almost soothing, and that dissonance set Dick’s pulse racing faster. “Though if you keep talking like that, I might take it as a challenge.”

Dick wanted to snarl something back, but his mind was still tripping over the wrongness of it — the way he’d braced for Bruce’s looming shadow and instead found this calm, deliberate danger standing in its place.

Slade tilted his head, studying him the way a sculptor might study a piece of marble. “You move better now. The city’s changing you.”

Dick swallowed hard, trying not to flush under the scrutiny. “I’m fine,” he snapped.

“I didn’t say you weren’t.” A faint curve tugged at the corner of Slade’s mouth. “You’re just not… finished yet.”

That single word landed like a blow. Not finished.

Bruce had said something similar, right before everything had gone to hell.

Slade’s voice cut through the memory. “You don’t have to keep measuring yourself against him, you know.”

Dick stiffened, baring his teeth in defiance. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“Don’t I?” Slade took a step closer — slow, deliberate, never threatening, but somehow still managing to make the air feel thinner. “You think I can’t tell when someone’s been trained to be an extension of another man’s will? You’re doing fine work here, little bird. Better than most.”

“I’m not interested in compliments.”

“That’s why they matter.”

The calm certainty in his tone left Dick unsteady. He wanted to leave, to throw himself into the night before Slade could see how off-balance he felt — but his feet wouldn’t move.

It would have been a futile effort anyway. Slade could catch him easily. And potentially more importantly, he would catch him. The thought had Dick's heart thudding traitorously in his chest.

The mercenary glanced past him toward the skyline, the faintest glint of a smile visible beneath the mask. “Don’t worry, kid. I’m not here to clip your wings. I just want to see how high you can fly without someone telling you when to stop.”

Then he turned, and like smoke, he was gone.

Dick stood alone on the ledge, heart pounding, the city lights burning cold against his skin.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. He didn't want it to mean anything. But it did. It really fucking did.

Chapter Text

I just want to see how high you can fly without someone telling you when to stop.

The words clung to his skin like the rain, seeping down slowly to the bone while he tried to keep moving to ignore the chill.

For the next few nights, Dick patrolled harder, faster, more recklessly than he should’ve. He told himself it was to prove something — that Blüdhaven was his, that he didn’t need anyone else’s shadow to give him purpose. But the truth itched just beneath his skin: every time he leapt a rooftop, he half-expected to see that one-eyed mask watching from the next.

Slade hadn’t touched him, hadn’t threatened him. He hadn’t even stayed long enough to justify the way Dick kept looking over his shoulder. But the encounter lingered — the tone, the weight of his gaze. Like Slade could see through him, past the costume, down to the parts Bruce had tried to shape and the parts that still didn’t fit.

He’d always prided himself on his independence. Leaving Gotham had been a declaration — I don’t need you anymore, Bruce. But Slade’s voice kept looping in his mind, low and steady:

You don’t have to keep measuring yourself against him.

He hated how the words felt less like a taunt and more like… permission.

He found himself taking risks he shouldn’t — getting closer in fights, drawing things out, testing limits. He told himself it was just him adjusting to a new city, a new rhythm. That it was just him spreading his wings, seeing who he could be without the safe-rails that felt more and more like prison bars. But there were moments — fleeting, breathless ones — when he’d catch his reflection in a window and think he saw a ghost of orange instead of blue. He couldn't tell if it was better or worse than seeing the shadow of the man he'd never be enough for.

It would’ve been easier if Slade had tried to kill him. Dick knew how to handle enemies. But whatever Slade was doing — watching, waiting, knowing — that was harder to fight.

And somewhere between the rooftops and the silence of his empty apartment, a thought took root that made him flush with shame every time it surfaced.

If Bruce wouldn't come after him, maybe someone else would.

—

It was raining again when Slade finally came back.

Dick was halfway through tracking a gunrunner near the docks when he heard the footstep behind him — too deliberate, too confident to be one of the smugglers.

He didn’t turn right away. He didn’t have to.

“Didn’t think you were the type to stalk,” Dick said, voice flat. “Usually you just kick down doors.”

“Wouldn’t want to interrupt,” Slade replied smoothly. He stepped into view, armor glinting faintly beneath the dock lights, his face hidden behind the familiar mask. “You’ve built yourself quite a little empire here, Nightwing.”

“Not an empire,” Dick shot back. “Just cleaning up your messes.”

Slade chuckled — low, rich, irritatingly patient. “You sound like him when you say things like that.”

That did it. Dick spun around, escrima sticks flashing in the dim light. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Slade tilted his head, and even through the mask Dick could feel that single eye tracking him — not like a target, but like something precious. “Compare you to the man who still hasn’t called? The one who let you go because he couldn’t face what he made?”

Dick’s hands tightened around his weapons. “You don’t know anything about that.”

“I know exactly what it looks like when someone throws away their best work.” Slade took another step closer, unhurried, voice dipping softer. “You’ve spent years trying to make him proud, boy. What’s it gotten you? A city that stinks of rot, a mission you can’t win, and a ghost for a mentor.”

The word boy should’ve grated. It did, a little — but there was something else under it too, something that dug beneath his armor. The way he said it was.. different. He shook his head to clear it; there would be time enough later to pull apart the mercenary's words.

“You here to fight me, or just play therapist, Dr. Wilson?” Dick asked, though the words lacked bite.

“I’m here to offer you something better.”

Slade moved like the rain didn’t touch him. He reached into his belt, pulled out a small flash drive, and tossed it underhand. Dick caught it automatically.

“Intel,” Slade said. “Names, routes, shipment manifests. Enough to cripple half the ring you’ve been chasing.”

Dick frowned down at it. “And what do you want in return?”

“Nothing,” Slade said easily. Then, after a beat: “Not yet.”

That was the moment Dick should’ve walked away. But he didn’t. He just stood there, watching the man who wasn’t Bruce — who wasn’t trying to fix him or control him or keep him at arm's length — but who saw something worth wanting in him all the same.

And that, somehow, was more dangerous than any threat Slade could make.

—

The intel was good. Too good. Too good not to use.

Dick told himself that was the only reason he followed up on it — because it worked. He cracked open one of Blüdhaven’s biggest smuggling networks in less than a week, tracing a paper trail so clean it was like someone had already done the heavy lifting for him. He didn’t tell Oracle. Didn’t tell Bruce. He just moved quietly through the city’s veins, dismantling operations and pretending he didn’t know whose hand had guided him there.

By the third week, he stopped pretending.

Slade was waiting for him again — not at the docks this time, but on a high rooftop overlooking the bay, one boot propped on the ledge, the other planted firm on the slick concrete. Like he’d been there the whole time.

“You’re efficient when you stop trying to impress ghosts,” Slade said without looking at him.

Dick dropped down a few feet away, landing in a crouch. “I don’t remember asking for a performance review.”

“You didn’t,” Slade agreed. “But you needed one.”

Dick snorted. “And let me guess — you’re the one who gets to give it?”

“That depends.” Slade turned, just enough for his single eye to catch the light. “You want to keep floundering, or do you want to win?”

Dick hated how the question landed — how much it sounded like Bruce, but without the weight of judgment behind it. Slade didn’t care if Dick crossed a line, didn’t care if he fought dirty. He just wanted results.

And God help him, that felt like freedom.

“You really think I need your help?” Dick asked.

“I think you already used it,” Slade replied mildly. “And I think you liked it.”

Dick’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing beneath the domino mask. He didn’t deny it.

They stood there for a long time, the rain whispering between them, the city’s heartbeat echoing below. Then Slade said, “You’re wasted under his shadow. You always have been. Let me show you what you’re actually capable of.”

Something in the way he said it — quiet, sure, not a challenge but a promise — lodged itself in Dick’s chest.

He didn’t answer. He just turned away, vaulted to the next roof, and felt Slade’s presence follow like a second pulse in the dark.

Over the next few weeks, Slade kept showing up. Never announced himself, never asked permission. He’d appear mid-fight to cover Dick’s blind spot, or after, when Dick was bruised and bleeding, offering a hand up and a word of praise that hit harder than any blow.

And little by little, Dick stopped fighting it.

—

It started as training. At least, that’s what Dick told himself.

Slade’s methods were brutal — efficient in a way Bruce’s never were. Bruce taught control, restraint, the art of holding back. Slade taught decisiveness. How to end a fight before it started. How to read intent and act before hesitation could creep in.

The first time Slade disarmed him, it happened so fast Dick barely saw it. A wrist lock, a twist, and his escrima stick was skittering across the floor. The second time, he anticipated the movement — and Slade rewarded him with a grin that was half approval, half warning.

“Better,” Slade said, circling him. “You’re learning to stop asking permission to hit back.”

Dick wiped a streak of sweat from his cheek. “I don’t need your approval.”

“No,” Slade nodded, then flashed him a smile that was all teeth. “But you want it.”

The words landed low and heavy. It wasn’t the accusation that hurt — it was that he couldn’t quite deny it.

Every lesson bled into the next. They met in abandoned warehouses, rooftops, sometimes the quiet woods outside Blüdhaven where no one could hear the sound of fists breaking rhythm against flesh. Dick hated how much he looked forward to it — to the bruises, the burn, the contact.

Slade had a way of closing distance without touching him. When he did touch him, it was calculated — a correction, a shove, a hand around his wrist holding him steady while he whispered where he’d gone wrong.

“You fight like you're still trying to earn love,” Slade said once, voice quiet against his ear as he pinned him to the mat, massive hands hot against Dick's skin. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me. Just be better.”

Dick couldn’t tell if that was kindness or cruelty.

He told himself it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was getting sharper. Stronger. More dangerous. Every bruise was proof. Every spar was a release.

And every night he found himself standing too close afterward, breath still uneven, waiting for something else to happen — something neither of them named.

Slade never pushed. He didn’t have to. The silence between them did it for him.

The fights gave Dick the focus he'd needed — the sting of impact, the split-second clarity before the next strike. But somewhere along the way, he started to recognize the rhythm that came after. The moments when Slade lingered, saying nothing, just standing near enough that Dick could feel the weight of him without being touched.

It was easy to tell himself that he liked the challenge. That Slade showing up unannounced, joining him on patrols without a word, was about training or territory. But that wasn’t it. It was the way Slade treated him like an equal, not a soldier to command. When they moved together, Dick didn’t feel like someone still chasing approval — just someone who belonged exactly where he was. He wasn't dwarfed in Slade's shadow.

He told himself that was why he let Slade closer. Because in Slade’s presence, his body remembered how to rest. His guard slipped without fear of reprimand. He didn’t have to earn stillness here, it came naturally, like the rise and fall of his chest.

Slade never averted his eyes, either. Where Bruce’s eyes had always turned from him at the edge of anything too human — too wanting — Slade’s gaze stayed steady. Assessing, yes, but appreciative too, in a way that didn’t feel like pity or restraint.

It should have been unnerving. Instead, it felt like long-denied honesty. And that was what scared Dick most of all — the knowledge that Slade was patiently waiting. It was up to him to decide which side of the line he wanted to stand on.

He could feel the questions hanging between them each time they met, sharp as the air before a storm.

If I jump, will you catch me?

When are you going to jump and find out, little bird?

Chapter Text

The rooftops of Blüdhaven bled together in streaks of gray and amber as the sun sank, rain threatening in the air. Nightwing moved like a shadow between the structures—quick, precise, and just a little reckless. He didn’t have to look behind him to know Slade was there; he could feel the older man’s presence like static in his blood, steady and unhurried, the way a predator walks when it knows it’s the only one that matters.

“Your spacing’s tight,” Slade murmured through the comm. His tone wasn’t correction—it was observation, maybe even approval. “Expecting company?”

“Always,” Dick replied. He didn’t need orders; he’d already mapped the routes, marked the snipers, set the traps. He wasn’t the kid following after someone else’s cape anymore. He was his own rhythm now, sharp and unpredictable, and Slade didn’t tell him to slow down or wait. He let him run.

By the time they reached the warehouse, the contrast between Slade’s deliberate precision and Dick’s agile speed was almost poetic. Batman would have called him impulsive, reminded him of the mission, ordered him to fall back and wait for backup. But Slade? Slade was there beside him, wordless, already cutting down the guard who would’ve flanked them.

“Guess we’re improvising,” Dick said, catching his breath as he spun his escrima sticks into position.

Slade’s single eye gleamed in the dark. “We always were.”

That was the difference, Dick thought. Bruce’s lessons were built on fear—fear of loss, fear of failure, fear of what the world would do if he wasn’t perfect. Slade’s world was built on consequence. You made a choice, you stood by it. You didn’t have to be perfect—just effective.

When the last mercenary hit the floor, Dick straightened, the ache in his muscles thrumming with adrenaline and satisfaction. Slade cleaned his blade with casual precision, glancing his way.

“Your timing’s better,” he said.

For Bruce, that same comment would have come laced with expectation, a quiet reminder that there was still more work to do, another target to hit. From Slade, it was different. It wasn’t a demand. It was recognition.

“Thanks,” Dick said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
Slade didn’t press. He just nodded once, as if to say you earned that one.

For a long moment, they stood there amid the silence of the broken warehouse—two men shaped by violence, both too proud and too wary to call what they had trust. But it was something. Something Bruce could never quite give him.

And when Slade finally said, “Let’s get out of here,” and turned his back, Dick followed—not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

—

The safehouse was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the rhythmic clink of metal as Slade disassembled his rifle on the table. Nightwing leaned against the opposite wall, mask pushed up to his hairline, the damp curls at his temples sticking to his skin. The adrenaline had finally ebbed, leaving behind a bone-deep fatigue that wasn’t entirely physical.

Slade didn’t speak at first. He never did. He worked in silence, methodical, focused. Bruce’s silences had always been sharp—judgmental, waiting for Dick to fill them with apology or explanation. But Slade’s were… neutral. Spacious. They left room for Dick to breathe.

“You went in early,” Slade said eventually, without looking up.

“Yeah,” Dick replied, half-expecting the lecture that should have followed. Compromised position. Risked exposure. Undermined strategy. But none of it came. Just the faint sound of a cleaning rod sliding through a barrel.

“You trusted your read,” Slade continued. “And you were right.”

That was it. No reprimand, no praise dripping in reluctant approval. Just acknowledgment. Dick wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He crossed the room and sank onto the opposite chair, the metal creaking under his weight. His body still hummed with leftover energy, his head caught somewhere between the fight and the quiet.

“You ever get tired of it?” he asked. “The work.”

Slade’s one eye lifted, measuring him. “You mean the violence?”

“The constant.” Dick’s voice was low. “The movement, the control. Having to be perfect. The way everything’s always… a test.”

Slade’s mouth twitched. “You sound like someone who’s been graded too long.”

Dick huffed out a laugh, soft but bitter. “You have no idea.”

“I might,” Slade said, leaning back. “But the difference is, I stopped letting someone else write the rules. It doesn't always feel like that. Doesn't have to, anyway.”

Dick looked at him for a long moment. That was the difference, wasn’t it? Bruce demanded control, demanded order, demanded that Dick fit into the mold he’d carved from grief. But Slade didn’t demand anything. He didn’t need to. He offered space and waited to see what Dick would fill it with.

When Slade finally rose to leave, it was as quiet and unceremonious as everything else he did. He slung his pack over one shoulder and paused by the door. “You handled yourself well tonight. Don’t overthink it.”

“Too late,” Dick muttered, but there was a faint smile on his face.

The door shut behind him, and the silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was dense, full of everything Dick hadn’t said.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the abandoned cup of coffee on the table, the faint smell of gun oil lingering in the air. With Bruce, silence had been a punishment. A reminder that he’d disappointed someone he could never quite stop trying to please.

But this—this quiet after Slade left—felt different. It wasn’t about failure. It was about choice. About standing shoulder to shoulder with someone who saw him as capable and grown.

He exhaled slowly, fingers threading through his hair. For the first time in a long while, Dick didn’t feel like a soldier following orders.

He felt like a man.

—-

It crept up on him the way most dangerous things did — quietly, patiently, until he realized too late that it had already wrapped itself around him.

Slade didn’t tell him what to do. He didn’t correct his stance or bark orders. When they sparred, it was a conversation — one made of movement and breath and the occasional grin when one of them managed to land a hit. Slade wasn’t testing him anymore. He was matching him.

That was what threw Dick the most.

Bruce had always been the wall he slammed against — the teacher, the commander, the impossible standard. Slade was something else entirely. He met Dick’s eyes when they spoke. He listened. And when he offered advice, it wasn’t from the top down. It was shoulder to shoulder, as if to say, I see you.

Some nights, after they’d finished running drills, they would just sit. No lectures, no silence used as punishment — just two men catching their breath. Slade would light a cigar, the smoke curling between them, and Dick would watch the way the glow caught on the edges of his armor. He told himself it was just curiosity.

But then he caught himself thinking about it later — about how Slade moved, how his voice sounded when it dropped low, the quiet steadiness of him. About how safe he felt in his orbit.

That was the difference, really. Safety.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it — how much of his life had been built on the tension of not feeling safe, of waiting for the moment the hand that caught him would let go. But Slade never did.

And the longer that held true, the harder it became to ignore the pull building between them.

It wasn’t a question of if anymore. Dick knew that. He could see it in the way Slade watched him, in the unspoken permission in those eyes — not demanding, not denying. Just waiting.

For once, the choice was his.

And the knowledge of that, the certainty that Slade wouldn’t turn him away — that he could want without being punished for it — was intoxicating.

When they moved together on patrol, it felt seamless now, like twin blades cutting through the dark. Sometimes Slade would brush against him — a hand at his back, a brief touch at his shoulder — and Dick’s breath would catch, heat pooling low in his stomach.

The line between camaraderie and something else blurred a little more each night, until Dick couldn’t tell which side he was standing on.

He just knew he didn’t want to step back.

—-

The morning light in Blüdhaven had a jaundiced hue, caught somewhere between smoke and sunlight. It didn’t pour through the blinds so much as it leaked, pale and thin, coating the edges of Dick’s apartment in a kind of weary gold. He shrugged into his shirt, buttoning it halfway before realizing the fabric still smelled faintly of industrial soap from the precinct laundry.

He missed Alfred’s starch and quiet humming. Missed home-cooked breakfasts. But that was Gotham, and Gotham was a lifetime ago.

Here, no one called him “the Wayne ward.” No one looked at him and saw the ghost of Bruce Wayne’s philanthropy standing in front of them, smiling through the headlines. Here, he was just Officer Grayson — too young, too cheerful, too earnest for Blüdhaven PD, according to his new coworkers.

That suited him fine.

He passed the precinct bulletin board on the way to his desk, the one plastered with warnings, beat maps, and a faded “Hero of the Month” plaque from ten years ago. It smelled like bad coffee and tired men. The air hummed faintly with cynicism. But Dick was good at ignoring that. He’d had years of practice pretending not to notice when Bruce’s disapproval hung heavy in the air.

He filled out reports, cross-checked incident data, and smiled at the woman who handled the department’s intake forms. She was one of the few who treated him kindly. “You’re quick,” she’d said once, “and you listen.”

He’d smiled back, tight but genuine. “It’s what I’m good at.”

The truth was, he wasn’t sure what he was good at anymore. He knew how to move through the dark, how to take a hit, how to make a person tell him the truth without laying a hand on them. But “acrobat” and “vigilante” didn’t exactly translate on a résumé.

So he gritted his teeth, wore the badge, and did the job. He told himself that this was still helping people — that this was still what his parents would’ve wanted.

His paperwork was in order. Everything matched: his name, his gender marker, his birth certificate. Bruce had made sure of it years ago. Scrubbed every trace of the girl he used to be from every database that mattered. Most people didn’t even remember the Flying Graysons ever had a daughter.

It was a relief, in a way. He could move through the world without having to explain himself. Without bracing for the moment someone would tilt their head, curious, and ask something invasive.

Blüdhaven didn’t care who you used to be. It barely cared who you were now.

Still, there were moments — when the locker room talk got lazy and mean, or when some detective muttered a slur under his breath — that Dick’s jaw would tighten. He wanted to say something. Wanted to make it clear that this kind of rot was why good cops burned out before they made it ten years.

But he didn’t. Not yet. He had to earn his ground first.

Gordon had once told him that the best change came slow, built piece by piece by the people who refused to leave. So Dick stayed. He smiled. He kept his temper in check and his paperwork spotless.

By the end of his first month, the police chief had stopped calling him “kid.”

That was something.

—

The days started to take shape again. That in itself was strange.

For the first time since leaving Gotham, Dick had something like a rhythm: a job at the Blüdhaven precinct, his crappy apartment that smelled faintly of rust and cheap detergent, the same barista who always spelled his name wrong on the cup. He ignored Barbara’s missed calls, told himself he’d call her back later; he wouldn't.

Every Saturday morning, he picked up his refill from the pharmacy — the little amber bottle that grounded him in the body he fought for. The ritual of it, the precision, the quiet sting of the needle, reminded him that he still had control. That he was building something steady, something his.

But it also woke things up he hadn’t meant to wake.

For months after Gotham, he’d lived like a monk. It was easier that way — to lock everything down, to tell himself he didn’t want anything. Not touch. Not affection. Not the messy, confusing ache that came with wanting to be seen.

And then there was Slade.

He was too sharp, too old, too dangerous — everything Dick should’ve stayed away from. But he was also there. Solid. Unflinching. He never treated Dick like he was fragile or half-formed. And when he looked at him — really looked at him — Dick didn’t feel like a ghost anymore.

That was new. That was terrifying.

He’d catch himself watching Slade’s mouth when he spoke, or the line of his throat when he pulled his mask off after a mission. He’d tell himself it was curiosity, an artist’s eye, a soldier’s assessment. But the warmth that crept into his face afterward told another story.

It wasn’t a sin to want. He kept reminding himself of that. Bruce wasn’t here to scowl at him across the Cave, to tell him to focus, to make him feel small for the things he couldn’t stop feeling.

He was a free man now. He could want anyone. And Slade — well. Slade was just there to want.

But every time he caught the older man’s steady gaze lingering a second too long, something uncoiled in his chest — slow, cautious, inevitable.